The decision to retreat daily to a remote mountain cabin came after a stream of news so consistently maddening I felt on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I had become addicted to the news feed and spent a good portion of the day agonizing over what I could do as a writer to allay the precipitous divide in our country. A division I worried might lead to civil unrest. The tumultuous state of our nation had me questioning whether the strides we had made toward becoming a more civilized society had been little more than blissful illusions.

I committed to drive up to the cabin each day, a 25 or so minute commute from town, and spend my time working in solitude without distraction. The cabin, I should clarify, was in fact a beautiful old home perched on a ridge overlooking Wildcat Valley, entrusted to us when vacant by the home’s kind and generous owners. You will remember it as you grow older, I hope, from occasional weekends spent exploring the property, playing board games, reading by the fire, and watching movies in the basement. 

Aside from swearing off news in order to maintain my sanity, I set to focus only on the things that truly mattered. I would not waste time on issues that were superficial or beyond my control. My attention would be dedicated to those things people reflect upon at the end of lives – the rich and important stuff — you being at the top of that list. I desired more undisturbed time with you and would work to approach each engagement with the same mindset from which you, a child, would approach it. My work, obviously, remained important. I would spend the better part of each day fulfilling obligations the best I could. Obligations, mind you, I was fortunate to have. Beyond that there was need for something else. A project of larger significance. 

I asked myself several questions. They were self-centered questions. Questions purely of the ego. What would I like to leave when I am gone? What sort of contribution do I wish to make to the world? How would I like to shape my legacy? 

At this point in my life, what I had to leave for you would have been of little consequence. Even today, well into this project, I do not know whether the end product will ever be read, much less have any real value. With that awareness, I suppose my only comfort is that an effort is being made. 

Over the years, I spent many days at the house in the mountains working in a spacious office above the garage. Every time I was there I would leave feeling that this was the only place for me to do good work. Every other option – coffee shops, the library, a ranch office where I work on the adventure book series, even my home office/library/playroom, which happens to be my favorite room in our home – had far too many distractions to undertake concentrated work.  

During a long day at the house I would get the urge to move and change scenery. The remedy was a short walk through a cluster of Aspen trees to the gently sloping hill behind the house. Often I would take a seat on a low, flat rock that stuck out of the grass, as this rock had, over geological time, developed comfortable contours for sitting. From the rock I could overlook the valley and enjoy the warmth of the sun. 

This became the spot where on days of good weather I would sit and read or think or repeat quietly The Prayer of Jabez. “Oh Lord, that you will bless me indeed and enlarge my territory. That your hand will be with me to guide me, to keep me from evil so that I may not cause pain.” This is a prayer I had learned of by way of a book our friend had given your mom and I to read after I had admitted to her that I had never been able to pray for myself.

My interpretation of the prayer is that it is a request to God to expand our influence and keep us on a righteous path so that we might do some good for the world. In such as setting, overlooking the valley that ran to the high peaks of the Elk Mountains, prayers were often drawn from me as if summoned by nature. The rock where I sit is fully exposed, and on sunny days in the winter it attracts enough heat to keep me warm. In the summer the rocks warmth is soothing for a time, but will eventually grow uncomfortable, so after fifteen or so minutes I simply change locations, moving up the hill where I can sit in the shade of a pine tree and resume whatever I am doing — reading, thinking, praying, usually a combination of the three.  

The first snow of this year came on October 1. Aspens and cottonwoods stood like golden torches, setting the mountainside ablaze, while the sagebrush on the arid slopes looked like it had been painted garnet and amber. The cabin was built at an elevation of approximately 8,150 feet and the temperature this day hovered right around freezing, so the snow was wet and heavy. The snow collected on limbs, bending them like arches. Two large limbs had already snapped by the time I had arrived at the house. More were sure to succumb to the weight. As anxious as I was to sit at the desk and get to work, I was unable to ignore the trees. I had a responsibility to care for this space that had been loaned to me, and that responsibility extended to the trees, as they added much value to this sanctuary. 

Pulling my hood over my head and securing it tightly around my face, I ventured out, gloveless, to shake the accumulating snow from the bending branches. One by one I grabbed the limbs and shook, creating a micro-blizzard each time. Every second or third limb I would have to stop and tend to my hands, which burned from the cold. Then I would begin again. I did this until every tree and shrub around the home had been relieved of its weight. It was a particularly rewarding start to the day.

That afternoon, as I packed up to leave for home, I realized that had I not taken the time to shake the trees free of snow that morning, I would have accomplished absolutely nothing of any value the entire day.